


Patchwork

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Divergent, Character Development, Fluff, Gen, Past Abuse, Pre-Relationship, spoiler-free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: It was like deja vu, seeing Kurusu's face covered in bruises.





	Patchwork

**Author's Note:**

> listen i know things Hit The Fan in November but forget that nonsense here's some mishima panicking and akira kinda flirtingish and being friends and shit.  
> (requested by twitter-user @oscen_sonata, who wanted "Mishima seeing Akira injured from the metaverse and his thoughts on that!" hope this reaches ur expectations, and thank you, pal! enjoy!)

Mishima, having successfully dodged the flu bug that infected almost the entire school for the past week, slumped over his desk with his second energy drink clutched between his sagging fingertips. Exhaustion seeped into his weary bones from the past several all-nighters collecting data and requests from the Phan-Site upon the commands of one eager leader who, quote, “wanted to take advantage of everyone’s suffering to change hearts.” It sounded complex and way over Mishima’s head, so he didn’t really question it. What he _did_ question was the asinine number of times he sent info to Kurusu, only for him to demand even _more._ Mishima’s hands ached from his excessive keyboard-use, to say the very least. 

“Mishima!” The classmate who sat behind him - Inui, one of the school’s more-reputable honor students in studies alone - banged a book atop the tired boy’s head. “You’re lookin’ dead today. What, didja spend all last night talkin’ to fictional girls again?”

“Shut it,” Mishima grumbled, brow furrowing. Did he have a headache, too? What a pain. Inui laughed before taking his seat and talking to the others around him. Good, because Mishima was not in the mood to talk to anybody right now. He just wanted to survive until he could get home and hopefully pass out with little consequence. (That is, so long as the Phantom Thieves didn’t require his assistance _again._ )

The classroom door slid open, and the nonchalant chatter fell quiet, acting as if they were in attendance of a funeral. He heard Takamaki babbling on about meeting up later that day to someone, her light footsteps filling in the gaping silence. They stopped near Mishima’s desk - perhaps noticing her undesirable onlookers - before biting out a sharp, “What?”

The chatter resumed, but in whispers now. Takamaki scoffed - “C’mon, let’s get to our seats, Akira.” - and her companion’s heavier, almost sluggish, footsteps followed. Mishima lifted his brick of a head up, squinting from the harsh overhead lights, before seeing why the silence swept through the class like a tsunami’s daunting waves. Like slipshod patchwork, splotches of blacks and blues adorned Kurusu’s face, accompanied by scab-infested knuckles and thin lacerations to create the spitting-image of the rumored delinquent everyone in school (sans the very few) pictured him to be. 

“Hey, Satomi,” one of the girls to Mishima’s left whispered, trying and failing to be subtle about staring, “what do you think happened?”

“He probably got into a fight with somebody encroaching his turf,” said the classmate behind her in a hushed voice. “Or maybe he and his gang got too rowdy. Talk about scary.”

Damn it. Mishima balled his hands into fists, slightly crushing his energy drink. If only Kamoshida hadn’t made him leak the information surrounding Kurusu, then nobody would be talking smack about him. Instead, rumor upon rumor circulated through the class like wildfire, spreading faster than Mishima’s clunking brain could process. He glanced back at Kurusu, who winced while cracking his neck. Those looked painful, and all too familiar.

(What was it? Mishima’s thoughts journeyed through his memory’s catalogue, opening a carefully-locked cabinet containing what he longed to forget. April. The bruise just above Kurusu’s left eye matched _hers_ , almost like unwanted twins. She forgot to apply her usual amounts of concealer after it happened, sporting it like an ugly badge of Kamoshida’s honor. The next day, Mishima had one, too.

Suzui dropped off a makeup bag that same afternoon in Mishima’s shoe locker with a note written in flowery, yet shaky, handwriting: _“Here’s some more, in case you’re out. Please take care. -S.”_ )

He sucked in a sharp breath and tore his gaze away. More importantly, how the heck did he even get those? Kurusu stopped asking for requests yesterday, and Mishima’s phone fell silent, the barrage of buzzes becoming absent. His nagging intuition insisted that perhaps Kurusu got hurt from tackling on so many requests at once. But if that was the case, then did that mean every time he took a request or robbed some bad guy of their heart that he placed himself into danger? A slight chill ran along his spine as the realization seeped into his skin. 

_Wait, does that mean when he went after Kamoshida--_

No. No, no, no. He never even noticed. He never even realized. He never even _thought._ Of course being a Phantom Thief had to be a dangerous job, hand-in-hand with the adjectives “exciting” and “enthralling.” But to actually conceptualize Kurusu being injured, Kurusu suffering from scrapes and bruises and maybe even worse, Kurusu _literally_ risking his life, it humanized him. He was a real person, flesh and muscle and easily breakable bones, not just some shadow with an alter-ego name tacked upon him like some banner of pride. Not just some cool anti-hero donning the pages of a popular serial-fiction updated weekly in the magazines his mom liked to read.

Ms. Kawakami droned on in her somewhat monotone voice about the latest and greatest characters to add to the class’s vocabulary, her words washing over him as he stiffened in his seat. His lungs filled up from the waters of tension building up in him, nearly drowning him despite being able to breathe just fine. His knuckles bulged a disturbing white as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, his rampant imagination supplying thoughts of Kamoshida’s palms gifting Kurusu’s face with bruises meant for someone else.

 _Not him too,_ Mishima lamented, fingernails dragging along his scalp. _Please, no one else, wasn’t I enough? Wasn’t Suzui enough, too? Not only did you have me ruin his school reputation, but you--you--and it’s all my fault, isn’t it? If only I denied it more. Then Kurusu would not be in such danger. But then Kamoshida would still be here, and all those other people the Phantom Thieves saved would still be suffering._

Around and around and around his dreadful thoughts meandered, spinning a web of uncertainty that tangled his stomach into knots. What could he do? All he did was manage some seemingly dumb website that maybe gave the Thieves more grief than he imagined and updated some silly poll that asked trivial and borderline asinine questions. How could he be so blind sometimes? Did he learn nothing from his blunder of using the Thieves since the get-go?

 _All this time my aim was for fame, and here they were, risking life and limb while I sat on my bed and texted him requests._ Mishima bit his bottom lip, brow furrowing. _Well, that ends today! I’m not going to simply sit around anymore, not if I can help it. There’s got to be something more I can do for them, or at least_ him. _Right?_

He slipped a hand into his pocket to pull out his cellphone as soon as he knew Ms. Kawakami wouldn’t turn around from writing on the blackboard. He didn’t know where he was going with this, or how he could make it better, but he sent Kurusu a text on impulse anyhow:

 **Mishima:** Are you doing anything after school today?

He glanced back at Kurusu, who stirred from his seemingly sleepy stupor and discreetly checked his phone. His gaze shifted to Mishima, and, after a fleeting smile, sent him a message back,

 **Kurusu:** I have no plans.

Alright, cool. Step one, completed. Mishima’s forefinger rested against his thigh while he stared at the phone’s screen until it turned black. Now what? Without falling back on his typical duties of giving requests, Mishima really had no reason to hang out with Kurusu. Their entire friendship, in that moment, seemed forced. 

He shook his head. No, he needed to stop thinking like that. Think positive.

 **Mishima:** Everyone’s talking about you. Are you okay?

 **Kurusu:** It only looks bad. It’s not that painful.

At that, Mishima almost rolled his eyes. Did Kurusu forget that Mishima had his fair share of bruises himself? He’s not stupid. 

**Mishima:** Okay. Still, if you want to keep your low profile, you’ve got to play it more safe. Do you want the police to catch you?

 **Kurusu:** It’s fine.

 **Mishima:** No, it’s not. 

**Kurusu:** It’s whatever. Relax. 

“Relax?” Mishima’s brow furrowed. There was nothing about any of this situation to be “relaxed” about. Or maybe he was reading too deep into this. At this rate, he was becoming like a fussing hen, sort of like Suzui back _then._

(Back then. Mishima’s shoulders tensed the moment a hand gently tapped his shoulder, his tongue drying in anticipation, only for a soft voice to ask, “You, too?”

He turned. Suzui gave him a cautious, guarded smile. A few strands of her hair came loose from her latest “meeting” with Kamoshida, the red blotches creeping along her pale skin, like a pink sunset bleeding into clouds. She averted her gaze, worrying her chapped bottom lip. The silence between them stretched on like the intense practices without water breaks.

“It’s okay,” she said, holding up both hands once she realized Mishima wouldn’t respond. “You’re not the only ‘favorite.’ You don’t have to hide it around me.”

“I am _not_ hiding _anything,_ ” Mishima retorted, with a little more bite to his tone than he intended. She flinched, and his tough-guy demeanor caved, replaced by a gnawing regret that ate away his scowling expression, exposing the softer, more vulnerable side of him. “No, I mean--I’m sorry. That came out wrong, um. It was instinctive.”

She fidgeted for a moment, and Mishima believed for the slightest moment he damaged this interaction beyond repair (again, like many others), before she offered a tense, but otherwise forgiving, smile. “It’s all right. I understand. I just wanted to offer my support somehow. To let you know that you’re not going through this alone.” She paused, then shook her head. “No, that’s wrong. More than anything, I wanted to know that _I’m_ not alone in this.”

“Suzui?”

She laughed; it sounded harrowed, forced. He never wanted to hear it again. “Forget it. Mishima,” her eyes lifted to his, “do you want to learn how to get people to stop talking about these bruises so much? I can teach you.”

“Teach me,” he echoed. He didn’t know what was worse: being whispered about behind his back whenever he came to class with a new bandage, or being ignored completely. But Suzui continued,

“All it takes is a little bit of makeup, and no one will notice a thing. It’s like a magic trick. Trust me.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “At the very least, it will make looking at yourself in the mirror easier without _his_ little reminders.”)

The blood drained from his face. Oh, _Suzui._ He never had the balls to go see her in the hospital after _that_ day. Every time he tried, he bailed last second, with some half-rationalized excuse for him to come by some _other_ time that would never come. God, he could be such a self-centered _loser_ sometimes. She should have never given him a chance or a means to fight back in the smallest of ways against Kamoshida’s tyranny.

His phone buzzed.

 **Kurusu:** You okay? You look like you just ate something bad.

Oh, right. He was still berating Kurusu for not taking care of himself. So hypocritical. His fingers tapped against the screen, anxiety thrumming in his veins, before attempting to steel his resolve. He might have dropped the ball with Suzui, but he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. Not with Kurusu. Not if he could help it.

 **Mishima:** Forget about me. We’re talking about you.

 **Mishima:** As your PR Manager, I need to maintain your image AND safety! I’m coming to your house today and mandating that you take it easy! 

**Mishima:** Even if I have to storm your place to make sure you’re relaxing.

Was that too much? He didn’t have enough time to backpedal in his demands before his phone buzzed again.

 **Kurusu:** You don’t even know where I live.

 **Kurusu:** But after taking care of all those requests…

 **Kurusu:** Hanging out sounds fun.

 **Mishima:** Really? You sure?

 **Kurusu:** Sure.

 **Kurusu:** Meet me at the gates after school. Hope you like coffee.

Coffee? Mishima gave Kurusu a puzzled look, who in return gave a thumbs-up. Sometimes, he could be so eccentric. No wonder he was a Phantom Thief.

 **Mishima:** Actually, I got to pick something up first back home. Meet you at the station?

 **Kurusu:** Works for me. 

Mishima glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall, ticking away their trapped school lives second by second. Only several more hours, and they were going to go to Kurusu’s place. _Alone,_ even. A strange thrill ran along his back. Was it okay to be selfish and feel happy that Kurusu, _the_ Kurusu, singled him out to “hang,” like friends did?

Wow, he really sounded like a _super-_ loser, dwelling on this invitation as though it were a gift from the highest heavens. The only one who felt awkward about this whole thing was Mishima himself, who still felt unused to this. Friends, huh? Actual, legitimate friends, not just partners-in-crime. His mother would probably not believe him if he told her.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and pretended to follow along with the rest of the lecture. On the board, Ms. Kawakami wrote the final character of the class, _a-na-do,_ accompanied by its hiragana. “Despised.” He vaguely wondered if she was in a foul mood again, given the string of rather negative words she lumped together.

Oh well. He had more important things to think about now: a promise that burned in his pant’s pocket.

*

“Make yourself at home.”

Bitter. The pungent scent of coffee permeated throughout the kinda shabby-looking cafe tucked away on some forgettable side street. The leather booth seats squeaked every time a patron shifted their weight. Behind the counter, a man donning a classy pastel pink shirt and apron shuffled about while conversing with a dashing younger man who sat with his legs crossed upon the stool. He looked oddly familiar, but Mishima’s buzzing brain could not quite pin a name to him. Maybe he was famous? Kurusu nodded at him (friends?), and he nodded back (at least acquaintances, then. And he didn’t seem disturbed by Kurusu’s ridiculous amounts of bruises), eying Mishima with slight interest, only to return reading a few seconds later. What a weirdo.

“This way,” Kurusu said, shuffling over to the stairs. The cat he towed along hopped out of his bag and landed gracefully onto the floor, meowing. Kurusu snorted, as if the cat said something funny. Did being a Phantom Thief mean he was a cat-whisperer, too? 

They ascended the stairs, footsteps creaking against the aged wood, before arriving to the attic. Aside from the occasional cobweb and accumulating dust-piles, the room itself appeared homey, filled with various gifts and adorned with a Phantom Thief banner tacked haphazardly upon one of the walls. An ancient television set sat on a rickety-looking table, its legs ready to give out at any second. 

“This is,” Mishima forced out, giving a less-than-reassuring smile, “nice?”

Kurusu nodded. Mishima willed his dust-allergies to remain docile.

“Huh.”

He set his bag on the floor and glanced at the contemplative Kurusu. “Huh?”

Kurusu watched him, bangs lilting to the side as he cocked his head, overhead lights glinting in his glasses. He stroked his chin. “I just realized that this is the first time outside of ‘work’ that we’re interacting on a ‘friend’ basis.”

Was it really? Mishima hummed as he ruminated on it, replaying their various interactions leading up to November. Maybe it was. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, I guess it is, isn’t it?”

“It’s a good thing,” Kurusu added, as though he could sense Mishima’s sudden worry. “Different.”

“Oh. Well, good. I’m glad. I think.”

But what else did Mishima have to offer in his “friendship” with Kurusu? All he babbled about was his laser-focused interests, which comprised of three things: the Phantom Thieves, anime, and video games. Oh, and maybe music, so that’s a fourth thing, but he’s never witnessed Kurusu with an iPod or anything. They could talk about girls, like Sakomoto did, but he really doesn’t want to do that for some reason. What about school? Boring, _and_ cliche. Kurusu dragged a chair over and sat in it backwards, almost looking expectant. Mishima swallowed, and settled on the one thing he never failed at: business.

“I brought something with me,” he said, gesturing to his bag. “I think it might help you. With, uh. You know.”

Kurusu raised an eyebrow. Mishima rummaged through it, pulling out the dainty, slightly crumpled box, labeled in sloppy Sharpie writing as “MISC.” He pulled out the concealer first, then the foundation, and some translucent powder for an added measure. He offered a weak smile.

“I know what it looks like,” he said. “But I can at least give you a way to hide all of that so maybe people will stop talking.”

“I don’t care what they think,” Kurusu replied. His gaze settled on the concealer. “But I guess Boss is sick of me coming back looking like, quote, ‘a thug.’”

“Boss?”

“The guy behind the counter.” He jabbed a thumb towards the stairway. “The one who’s letting me live here.”

“Oh.”

“So.” Kurusu grinned a bit, cocky. “Make me beautiful, oh all-knowing PR manager.”

“Cut it out, will you? I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m joking. Please, show me.”

Mishima huffed, slightly annoyed at Kurusu’s lightheartedness about the situation, but pulled up the other chair and sat in front of him regardless. His muscle-memory remembered Suzui’s guiding hands - put the glasses aside, add concealer first (would it be light enough for Kurusu’s skin? Hopefully) - and began to dab the brush onto his cheek.

“Ow.”

“Oh, sorry!” Mishima retracted for a quick second, then readjusted the pressure he placed on Kurusu’s face. _Gentle,_ Suzui said, _try not to aggravate it anymore, it could be painful if you do that._

Moments passed in silence. Once the concealer smeared itself on each bruise, Mishima moved on to the foundation, his touch feather-light as the sponge made its way from one jawline to the other. Kurusu tensed, eyes closed, each time Mishima brushed an ugly purple blotch, now faded from the make-up - like a falling apart quilt stitched back together with matching patches and thread. There, looking a little better already. He reached for the translucent powder.

“Hey. How do you know all this stuff, anyway?”

He stopped, fingers frozen around the powder’s lid. 

“Mishima? Oh.” Kurusu’s voice softened, teasing tone giving way to a sympathetic one. “ _Oh._ Don’t answer, I think I already know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” Mishima said, keeping his words upbeat. He wasn’t about to crumble from the overbearing weight of the past, _especially_ in front of his idol. “I’m pretty much over it, you know? Doesn’t bother me anymore.” A lie, but right now, it wasn’t Pity Mishima Hour. He smiled and dusted on the powder, ensuring it distributed evenly. “It just bothers me that _you’re_ in pain.”

Kurusu “hm’ed” at that, eyelashes fluttering above his high cheekbones. 

“Does,” Mishima toed, venturing into territory that he somewhat crossed the boundaries of probably caring too much or reading too deeply into things, “does this happen often? The bruises and scratches. From your ‘side-job,’ I mean.”

“Usually not on the face. This is just because some masochistic girlfriend’s twisted heart liked to slap me and my male friends around a little. It’s generally well-hidden under my uniform.”

He winced. Crap, he really _was_ blind to just how much the Phantom Thieves went through. “Under your uniform,” he repeated, brush slowing as he reached the end of his damage-control. “Is it just bruises, or are there more pains I don’t know about?”

“You don’t need to worry so much.”

“I _do._ We’re friends,” he pulled away and placed the brush back into the box, “aren’t we? Not the best of them, probably. But you mean a lot to _me_ at least, Kurusu. More than you know.”

He closed the box and realized just how _bizarre_ that sounded. He never liked to divulge that much personal information or feelings, at least not aloud. Behind a keyboard, it seemed so much easier to whine and complain and compliment and whatever _else_ he did on the Internet, blogging about his mundane life for nobody to see, but speaking it seemed to break a contract with himself to not look like an idiot. His cheeks burned as he stood up, the box wrinkling from the pressure his thumbs pushed upon it.

“Sorry,” he added hastily. “That was dumb. We’re done, by the way. You can go look in a mirror, if you want.”

Kurusu opened his eyes. “You’re different now.”

“What?”

“You used to just care about your popularity and self-importance.” He picked up his glasses and pushed them over the bridge of his nose. “But you’re actually thinking of others. It’s different, like us meeting like this. It’s good.”

The compliment seared Mishima’s skin much like the sun’s late summer rays. He coughed, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Mishima.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Maybe a little. But my point still stands.”

“That you care about me?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. Yes. I mean, it’s only fair, right? I think you care for me, too. Despite everything, you still cheered for me, even when I was kind of a dick.”

“Kind of?”

“Fine, a _lot_ of a dick.”

Kurusu snorted, which became a full-out wheeze of a laughter, accompanied by slapping his own thighs. Mishima turned, eyes narrowed. But the sight of Kurusu laughing quelled the irritation, replacing it with a slight fondness. He wanted to see that again, to make Kurusu wheeze like some old man running a 5k marathon. His lips twitched into a more genuine smile.

“I never thought I’d hear the day you’d say _dick.”_

“What are you, twelve? I can say worse words than that.”

“Oh, really? You sure about that, Mr. Polite?”

“Really.” Mishima gave him a light shove in the shoulders. “But before I show you my spectacularly verbose vocabulary, go look at my handiwork and compliment me some more. I can get used to that. Maybe it’ll unlock more tiers on my list of talents that could be useful for you. Swearing included, even if it is not all that useful.”

“You should write that list down for me.” Kurusu gave him a wink as he shambled by, heading back downstairs toward the bathroom. Mishima waited, pacing around the room and pausing in front of the shelves. Wasn’t that bowl from the ramen place? It looked a little chipped, as if dropped by careless, impatient hands. He looked away when Kurusu came back with a thumbs-up. “You’re really good at this face-painting thing, y’know?”

Mishima hummed, and, latching on to his false confidence, replied, “You’re going to have to try harder than _that_ to get Tier Two rewards.”

“Shucks. Foiled again.” Kurusu snapped his fingers together and grinned. “So, what you wanna do now, since you made me look less like a trainwreck? Wanna grab some sweets from the store next door and then watch a movie?”

“You sold me at ‘sweets.’”

Kurusu smiled. With the bruises softened, it appeared less menacing, and more human. Maybe Mishima could be more useful as a friend rather than just a PR Manager, after all. He made a mental note to offer his services in the future, if it meant being able to be so carefree like this. If it meant joking around like a pair of super-losers like this. Because, really, Kurusu could act all cool parading his Phantom Thief attire, but only super-losers liked documentaries on UFOs. 

Like, seriously?

At least, despite how long it took them to get there, they could be super-losers together, snacking down on terrible junk food that would inevitably result in a shameful trip to the dentist’s office.

*

_Hi, it’s Mishima. Long time no see. How are you?_

_I just wanted to say thank you. It’s long overdue, but you really showed me some compassion when I really needed it. It helped a lot, even if I never said it. Thank you so, so much. I thought I was suffering alone, when really, you were suffering just as much. And I was never there for you when you needed it. Some friend I am, huh?_

_But I learned. Just the other day, I used what you taught me to help someone close to me. I’m slowly becoming a better person, I think. Who knows. You’re someone I look up to, and I hope maybe someday we can meet again. I hope someday we could even be friends again, like we were for those brief few weeks. On better terms, obviously. I’m also going to write more letters to you. I hope you don’t mind. If it’s creepy, just tell me, okay?_

_Sorry, I’m rambling. Please get better soon. I’m rooting for you, like a boring-old fan-boy would. Hehe._

_Thanks again for everything, Suzui. Here’s to a better future for the both of us. Enjoy the flowers - a good friend of mine works at a flower shop and recommended them to me to send to you. Hope I’m not overdoing it._

_Cheers,_

_-M. Y._

*

 **Kurusu:** Does tier 2 unlock massages? My back’s killing me from yesterday.

 **Mishima:** Stop texting me during class, loser.

 **Kurusu:** :) You texted me back, so who’s the real loser here?

 **Mishima:** Shut up.

 **Mishima:**...Tier four. You’ve got one hundred compliments to go.

 **Mishima:** And don’t think copy-pasting the same one over and over again will win you any favors!

 **Kurusu:** :(


End file.
